These tumultuous shops of noise

Effectual whispers, whose still voice
The soul itself more feels than hears.

Amorous languishments, luminous trances,
Sights which are not seen with eyes,
Spiritual and soul-piercing glances:

Whose pure and subtle lightning flies

Home to the heart, and sets the house on fire;

And melts it down in sweet desire:

Yet does not stay

To ask the windows leave to

pass

that way.

Delicious deaths, soft exhalations.

Of soul; dear and divine annihilations;
A thousand unknown rites

Of joys, and rarified delights.

A hundred thousand goods, glories, and graces,
And many a mystic thing,

Which the divine embraces

Of the dear spouse of spirits with them will bring;
For which it is no shame

That dull mortality must not know a name.

Of all this store

Of blessings, and ten thousand more,

If when He come

He find the heart from home,

Doubtless He will unload

Himself some otherwhere,

His precious sweets,

On the fair soul whom first he meets.

O fair! O fortunate! O rich! O dear!
O happy, and thrice happy she,
Dear silver-breasted dove

Whoe'er she be,

Whose early love,

With winged vows,

Makes haste to meet her morning spouse,
And close with his immortal kisses!

Happy, indeed, who never misses
To improve that precious hour:
And every day

Seize her sweet prey,

All fresh and fragrant as he rises,
Dropping, with a balmy shower,
A delicious dew of spices.

O, let the blessful heart hold fast
Her heavenly armful, she shall taste
At once ten thousand paradises;

She shall have power

To rifle and deflower

The rich and roseal spring of those rare sweets,
Which with a swelling bosom there she meets,
Boundless and infinite, bottomless treasures

Of pure inebriating pleasures:

Happy proof she shall discover,

What joy, what bliss,

F

How

many

heavens at once it is,

To have a God become her lover!

ON MR. G. HERBERT'S BOOK,

Entitled, "The Temple of Sacred Poems,” sent to a Gentlewoman.

NOW you, fair, on what you look?
Divinest love lies in this book,
Expecting fire from your eyes,

To kindle this His sacrifice.

When your hands untie these strings,
Think you've an angel by the wings;
One that gladly will be nigh

To wait upon each morning sigh,
To flutter in the balmy air
Of your well-perfumèd prayer.

These white plumes of His He'll lend you,
Which every day to heaven will send you ;
To take acquaintance of the sphere,
And all the smooth-faced kindred there.
And though Herbert's name do owe
These devotions, fairest, know
That while I lay them on the shrine
Of your white hand, they are mine.

A HYMN TO THE NAME AND HONOUR OF THE ADMIRABLE SAINT TERESA,

Foundress of the Reformation of the discalced Carmelites, both men and women; a woman for angelical height of speculation, for masculine courage of performance, more than a woman; who, yet a child, outran maturity, and durst plot a martyrdom.

OVE, thou art absolute, sole Lord
Of life and death. To prove the word,
We'll now appeal to none of all

Those thy old soldiers, great and tall,

Ripe men of martyrdom, that could reach down
With strong arms their triumphant crown:
Such as could with lusty breath

Speak loud, unto the face of death,

Their great Lord's glorious name; to none
Of those whose spacious bosoms spread a throne
For love at large to fill; spare blood and sweat:
We'll see Him take a private seat,
And make His mansion in the mild
And milky soul of a soft child.

Scarce has she learnt to lisp a name
Of martyr, yet she thinks it shame
Life should so long play with that breath
Which spent can buy so brave a death.

's

ногу

Understave

Also

-2

Love
Struger.
Двата

then

"She never undertook to know

What death with love should have to do.
Nor has she e'er yet understood

Why, to show love, she should shed blood;
Yet, though she cannot tell you why,
She can love, and she can die.

Scarce has she blood enough to make

A guilty sword blush for her sake;l

Yet has a heart dares hope to prove

How much less strong is death than love.

Be love but there; let poor six years
Be posed with the maturest fears

Man trembles at, we straight shall find

-Love knows no nonage, nor the mind.aturity

'Tis love, not years or limbs, that can

Make the martyr, or the man.

Love burns Love touch'd her heart, and lo! it beats
Drunk cold d'High, and burns with such brave heats;
Breaths for Such thirst to die, as dares drink up
A thousand cold deaths in one cup.

fire

thirst.

cred

Good reason, for she breathes all fire;
Her weak breast heaves with strong desire
Of what she may, with fruitless wishes,
Seek for amongst her mother's kisses.

Since 'tis not to be had at home,
She'll travel to a martyrdom.
No home for her confesses she,

But where she may a martyr be.
She'll to the Moors, and trade with them,

For this unvalued diadem ;Crown